Diva Las Vegas (Book 1 in Raven McShane Series)

by Caroline Dries

  “Okay, so why are we here?” Carlos asked when I turned off the engine. I had filled him in on the basics, but not much else.

  “Okay. One of the keys to the murder trial was Cody’s testimony that he and his wife were together on the night of the murder. And she backed him up on it. She said not only were they together, they were having wild sex the whole night.”

  Carlos nodded. “I remember that part.”

  “So I came here yesterday with another PI named Mike. Amy was here alone, and Mike went inside to talk. While he was there, he overheard her on the phone planning a long weekend with someone who sounded like a boyfriend,” I said.

  “So we want to catch her in the act? You trying to blackmail her?”

  “Not exactly. I just want to see what the hell’s going on with her marriage.”

  “Gotcha.” Carlos turned on his iPod and put in his earbuds. He fished in the backpack he’d brought with him and hauled out a massive business textbook, which he began reading and highlighting with a pink highlighter. I peeked. The pages seemed to be nothing more than squiggles, numbers and Greek symbols. I frowned at him.

  “Portfolio theory,” he explained.

  “Whatever.” I shrugged and resumed my blank stare directed at the Masterson house. Within minutes there was movement in the house behind the partially closed blinds. Someone was moving back and forth in what looked like the master bedroom. I figured it was Amy finishing up her packing.

  The minutes ticked by and the activity in the house stopped around 6:40. It was still bright out, although the palm trees were casting longer and longer shadows as the sun quickened its descent behind the Masterson house. I had my rear-view mirror turned so I could see any oncoming traffic, but not a single car had made an appearance.

  “Quiet around here.” I said it loudly enough to be heard over Carlos’ music.

  Carlos nodded. “People who have houses like this can afford to get out of town for the summer.”

  Good point. Things remained quiet until about 7:15, when a white Cadillac Escalade appeared out of nowhere in my rear mirror. I slunk down low in my seat as it barreled by and turned sharply into the Masterson driveway. Amy’s visitor was in a hurry. I reached in the back seat and whipped out my camera, a digital Olympus with a 15x optical zoom lens.

  Carlos frowned. “You and your photos.”

  “Never hurts to get dirt on somebody. Even if this doesn’t lead to anything useful, it might give me a little leverage on her.”

  Carlos pondered that. “I like your style,” he said.

  Amy appeared at the door before the driver even put the car in park. She’d been waiting for him, and even from a distance it was obvious she was in a stormy mood. She propped her front door open and began hurriedly hauling a series of Louis Vuitton designer bags out to the Escalade.

  The SUV’s door opened and the driver got out. “Shit,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “I know that guy,” I said. “See these red marks on my neck? They’re from his fingernails.” I remembered his name tag: E. Holman. He must be “Eddie.”

  Holman walked gingerly over to meet Amy behind the Escalade. I chuckled involuntarily.

  “What now?”

  “See how he walks? He’s limping.”

  “You like to laugh at cripples?”

  “I did that. Kneed him right in the nuts.”

  Carlos made a face. “That ain’t right.”

  “Don’t get on my bad side, kid.”

  Holman pressed a button that opened up the car’s massive rear hatch. Inside was a large black leather duffel and a set of golf clubs. Amy’s voice was echoing around the deserted cul-de-sac. She was carping that he was late. Carlos took the camera from me and zoomed in.

  “She’s hot,” he announced.

  I snatched the camera away from him. “How does your girlfriend put up with you?”

  “I work a lot.”

  I snapped a few more photos. Carlos was right: Amy Masterson was a good looking woman. Blonde, about thirty. Curvy enough but with the skinny, athletic build of a tennis pro. Her round face made her look a little like the Swiss Miss girl. Holman went into the house and hauled out Amy’s set of golf clubs.

  “Well, it looks like they’re fighting, so we’re not going to get a shot of them kissing or anything,” I said.

  “Did you get the golf clubs? That’s good enough. They’re obviously going away together.”

  I nodded. “I wonder what she told Cody she was doing for the weekend. Or if he even cares.”

  They climbed in the Escalade and Holman backed it out. I began to panic. I hadn’t appreciated just how high the SUV stood to the ground compared to my little Audi. As they turned towards us, I realized Holman would have a clear angle to look down into my car as he passed us. We were sitting ducks.

  “Crap,” I said. “Carlos, don’t get the wrong idea, but I need you to kiss me right now.”

  Carlos didn’t need to be told twice. He lunged towards me. I was aiming for his chin, but he found my lips and locked on. I wrapped my arms around him and held on until the low growl of the Escalade’s engine had passed us by. His back and shoulders were amazingly muscular.

  “You can let go now,” I said.

  He was grinning sheepishly. “First she plays hard-to-get, then she’s all over me!”

  “Yeah, right. I think that means I don’t have to pay you for today.”

  “Admit it. You enjoyed it.”

  “Dream on.” I wasn’t going to give an inch. But I admitted to myself that it wasn’t a totally unpleasant experience.

  I was fixing my hair in the mirror when another car came upon us without warning. It was a low-slung red convertible driven by a blonde man in sunglasses. Before it reached us, I ducked down and pinned my neck against the frame of the door. Carlos was peeking over the dash.

  “The car’s pulling up the same driveway,” he said.

  I inched up in the seat and got a look for myself.

  I recognized him from the newspaper. “That’s Cody all right.”

  “No wonder she was in such a hurry to get out of there with her boyfriend,” Carlos said. “Cutting it pretty close.”

  Cody parked the car in the driveway, and I looked through the zoom lens. “Damn,” I said under my breath. Cody Masterson was easily the best looking man I had ever seen in person. Or anywhere. He was a trim six feet, with longish light yellow hair tucked back behind his ears. He was wearing a thin linen short-sleeved shirt and tight gray pants with black shoes. Work clothes, I guessed. Businesslike, but stylish. He didn’t have leading man looks—he was too beautiful to be taken seriously. Cody was more like a soap opera star. The kind of guy who was born to split his time between the gym and the bedroom.

  “Look at that butt,” I said. I don’t know why I said it, but I did.

  “It’s not bad,” Carlos conceded.

  I continued admiring Cody through the zoom lens as he walked up to the house. “You have to admit, that man is fine.”

  “Oh, he’s a dreamboat,” Carlos lisped in a high-pitched voice.

  “Oh, come on. You can admit when another man is attractive. Why are men so touchy about that?”

  “Admitting another dude is good looking is the first step on the path to turning maricón,” he explained. “Everyone knows that.”

  “That’s stupid. You’re saying you can’t tell the difference between Cody Masterson and Carrot Top?” The comedian Carrot Top always seemed to be playing somewhere in Vegas, which meant that his pasty white face and gnarled red hair were constantly plastered on giant billboards everywhere you looked. I had known people who’d changed their routes to work just to avoid them.

  “Carrot Top. Now that’s one ugly homey,” he said.

  “I want to see what Cody’s up to. You want to stick around?” I asked.

  “It’s your money. I’m supposed to work at nine but I can call in. Thursdays in July are usually slow until after midnight.”

&nb
sp; “Call in,” I said.

  Chapter 14

  “So are we watching Cody for business or pleasure?” Carlos asked.

  I smiled. “No reason it can’t be both.”

  “You’re not paying me enough for this,” Carlos complained.

  “That’s crap. You leave a pool of drool on the floor every time a pretty girl walks by. I’m allowed to look at a good-looking guy every once in awhile.”

  I hadn’t planned on seeing Cody, but I couldn’t resist the chance to learn what he’d be up to over a long weekend with his wife out of town. Maybe he’d be looking for a horny brunette with a convertible and fake boobs. I had to remind myself more than once that he was probably a murderer.

  Carlos sighed and opened up his book. I guessed he figured himself for the alpha dog and didn’t like the competition. The dusk was turning into evening, and after a half-hour of waiting Carlos was getting antsy.

  “I should have brought another book,” he said.

  “Light’s fading anyways. Give him a half-hour. There’s no way that guy is staying in and watching PBS tonight. Feel like clubbing?”

  “I’m an awesome dancer,” he said.

  I immediately put that image out of my mind and began daydreaming about dancing with Cody at a nightclub. That helped pass the time quickly. My hunch that Cody would not stay put proved true. The light went on in the foyer and Cody’s figure began moving about. He emerged from the front door just before 8:15. The light was much dimmer now, but I could see he had changed his clothes and rearranged or washed his hair. Now he wore a tight fitting white polo shirt with short sleeves that revealed a pair of tanned, muscled arms. His khaki pants looked like linen and fit loosely, in contrast to the shirt, and his bare feet were clad in brown sandals. He carried a medium-sized brown leather bag with him and threw it casually into the passenger’s seat of the convertible before getting in.

  Cody fired up the engine and cranked up the radio as he backed out of the driveway.

  “That’s a Bentley,” Carlos said.

  I rolled my eyes. “No shit.”

  As Cody drove past I crouched one last time in the driver’s seat. I grimaced as a painful twinge ran down my cramped spine. I shook it off and checked the rearview mirror. When Cody was a block away I turned my car around and began following him.

  “That won’t be a hard car to tail,” I said.

  “No shit.” Carlos flashed a wide, toothy smile.

  Cody left the subdivision the same way we had come in, and I guessed that was about the only way out of this tangled web of millionaires’ alleys. I managed to keep us a good hundred yards behind the Bentley as Cody wound his way east on Vegas Drive, picking up speed as he went.

  “Looks like he’s headed towards the Strip,” Carlos said.

  “Probably one of the clubs. Pure or Rain or one of those places all the cool kids hang out in.”

  I worried that Cody would be harder to track if that’s where he ended up. But as we reached the far north end of Las Vegas Boulevard, Cody surprised me by staying in the center lane and crossing through the Strip. We followed him as he turned south onto Eastern Avenue, closing in on the north end of the Strip resort area. But he tacked east again and headed onto the Boulder Highway in the direction of Boulder City and the Hoover Dam.

  “Where the hell is he going?” Carlos asked.

  “Good question.”

  I kept pace with him for another couple of miles and followed him through the darkening suburban streets after he veered off the highway in the suburb of Henderson. He slowed, finally, and ended up turning into a small subdivision. An illuminated sign at the subdivision’s entrance read “Westhill Meadows.” According to the sign, the development consisted of a single long street with a cul-de-sac at the far end. After Cody turned in, I idled the car near the sign at the entrance. From there we could see that the development still had a few vacant lots with For Sale signs in front. Just like every other development in Vegas. The few houses we could see appeared vacant and unfinished. A couple of bulldozers were parked face-to-face about a hundred feet down the road.

  “What the hell is he up to?” I asked rhetorically. “You hungry?”

  “I could eat,” Carlos said. “Don’t you want to follow him?”

  “Not now. According to that sign, there’s no other way out of that subdivision, and it looks kind of deserted. I’m afraid he’d notice us if we followed him in.”

  I looked around and found what I needed—a gas station on the next corner. I pulled into the parking lot and angled my car so that I could keep a clear view of the street leading into Westhill Meadows. I hurried into the gas station to use the bathroom and grabbed a big bag of pretzels. I hoped the manager wouldn’t mind if we enjoyed the pretzels while we sat in my car in the station’s parking lot.

  “This is food?” Carlos asked, eyeing the pretzels skeptically.

  “What do you expect, foie gras and truffles? Any activity?”

  He shook his head. “That street is dead, dude.”

  “Don’t call me dude.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We finished off the pretzels in short order, but that made us both thirsty and I had to run back into the station to grab a six-pack of Diet Coke. Ten or fifteen minutes had gone by when another car pulled into the subdivision. Another soon followed, and by 9:15 we’d counted three more cars turning in. I couldn’t see where they were headed, but it was obvious the deserted subdivision was coming to life.

  “Somethin’s going on,” Carlos said.

  “I guess it’s safe to go in now. We won’t stick out like a sore thumb with all those other cars in there.”

  We pulled out of the gas station and into Westhill Meadows, and I crept my car past a series of new homes in various stages of construction. The homes looked naked without any landscaping or trees around.

  “Nice houses,” Carlos said admiringly.

  By most standards the houses were large and luxurious, but they seemed kind of blah after our visit to the Masterson chateau in Summerlin. We crept along the road until we found a clump of cars parked at the end of the street. Some were parked on the road and two were in the driveway of a big ranch house that looked like it was the only completely finished house on the street. The red Bentley was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where the hell did he go?” Carlos asked.

  “Well, either we lost him somehow, or he pulled into that garage.”

  As we rolled slowly by the house, it became obvious from the loud music that some kind of party was going on. I circled around the cul-de-sac and parked in the crushed stone driveway of a half-built house across the way. I turned off the car and killed the lights just as a tan Volvo pulled up to the party house. The driver parked on the street and got out of the car, a bottle of wine in his left hand. His movements seemed tentative, as though he wasn’t sure he was in the right place. There was still enough light to see that he was tall and lean, and when he reached the well-lit front door I could tell that he was somewhat younger, probably mid-twenties, and appeared very well-built. The door opened as soon as he rang the bell, but the visitor blocked our view of whoever had let him in.

  Within minutes, two other cars pulled up more or less simultaneously. They parked in front of the house next door, an unfinished colonial with a Dumpster outside, and when the drivers got out they greeted each other like old friends. I couldn’t see their faces, but both men were fashionably dressed and abnormally fit.

  Carlos chuckled softly. “It looks like an Abercrombie & Fitch employee party.”

  We waited another twenty minutes, but no more cars showed up.

  “What now?” Carlos asked.

  “I think Cody’s car is in the garage across the street, which means he’s hosting a party of some kind.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Carlos found the button on the side of the passenger seat and reclined his chair backwards. He tilted his White Sox cap down over his eyes and began fake-snoring loudly, like in the car
toons. I could almost picture the ZZZZZZZ’s emanating from his head.

  “What exactly am I paying you for?”

  “Hey, this was your idea.”

  I couldn’t think of a better option, so I decided to get out of the car and check out the party myself. Carlos handed me my camera as I got out.

  “You’re so helpful,” I muttered.

  Like a lot of Nevada homes, the house’s “lawn” was a bed of small crushed rocks rather than grass. Luckily I was wearing comfortable sandals. I moved quickly towards the back of the house, where the action seemed to be, but the loud music abruptly shut off before I got there. I froze. I worried that in the silence people would hear the small rocks crunching loudly underneath my feet. Soft voices began murmuring in the back yard. I eased myself behind a wispy shrub against the house’s stuccoed wall and listened for any sign that I’d been seen or heard. All clear. After a minute I began slowly crunching my way to the back of the house.

  Behind the house was a large black rail fence, buttressed by thick juniper shrubs at least ten feet tall. Their root balls were still exposed from recent planting. Privacy at any expense, I guessed. More voices bounced around the backyard. Soon there was laughter, and the unmistakable sloshing sound of water being splashed. It was a pool party. Someone turned the music back on.

  I tried to find an opening to peek through the shrubbery. I had no luck until I reached the far right corner of the pool enclosure, where the right angle of the fence and junipers allowed a narrow but clear view into the pool area. The pool was lit with several fake Tiki torches and lights that shone up from inside the pool itself. It was larger than I would have guessed. On my right, all I could see at first was a diving board at the end of the pool nearest to me, and at the shallow end of the pool near the house three men in their early twenties were playing half-heartedly with a beach ball. Two of them sipped champagne from half-full flutes as they batted the ball around. When they bobbed up in the water, exposing their bare torsos, I could tell that these guys were serious workout freaks. Carlos was right—any of them could work as models for Abercrombie or Calvin Klein. One guy in particular had jet black hair and darker features, and there was something strangely familiar about him. I figured I’d probably seen him on a billboard or something. Or maybe he was just a composite sketch from my dreams.